Friday, April 6, 2012

A Tree Grows in Scottsdale

"A Tree Grows in Scottsdale" by Pete Goldlust and Mary Lucking

Trees: may they always grow, may the neighborhood around me always be shaded by them, may my bike rides be marked by their endless, majestic rows. Winds whispering their leaves. Their smell in rain. Their crunchy leaves underfoot in fall. Birch bark and pine cones. Acorns and helicopter seeds. Fragrant pods and resinous chip piles. Shelter in a storm. Bending in the gale. The way the ground beneath a pine can stay dry in a sudden downpour. Huddled against a trunk in a hailstorm on a mountain, shivering wet, lightning cracking all around. Initials inside a heart. Hot summer days, seated with back against the trunk, old folding pocket knife whittling a stick.

Lean my bike against one. Rest during a long hike, near sunset, somewhat slightly lost, low on water. Food bag roped up high in one, supposedly against bears. Climb one, among the middle branches, the woods seen from a different angle.

In the woods alone down by the East Verde River, I built a smokey campfire in the moonless darkness. The smoke rose up, up, through the limbs of a giant, old, overhanging cottonwood. The smoke stunned some of the tree bugs, including a praying mantis who dropped down and landed on the blanket next to me. Neither of us moved. I'm sure I resembled the blue-eyed redsnake, above, to Mr. Mantis.

Beneath a willow. Ah, beneath a willow. I think there may have been a bicycle, but that's not what I remember.

We hold these branches to be self-resplendent: that all leaves are grown equal. That they are endowed by their mother branch with certain alien creatures, that among these are caterpillars, inchworms, flying squirrels, praying mantis, and sugar gliders. That if you could introduce a three toed sloth to a manatee, and enable them to communicate with one another, and be patient and understanding as they got around to it, you could hear the universe unfold slowly, beneath this tree, this one of cloth in Scottsdale, and even the whales would lower to a hum their calling, to hear what was being said. The slow things, the bright things, the tree things worth hearing.

8 comments:

The ongoing Belle Art series in this alcove gives the viewer the sense of being inside the art, or surrounded by it, since you step inside it while still being outside. I don't think I have exactly portrayed this aspect of it, perhaps some context shots next time, to show what it looks like as you ride up to it.

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Let's Just Ride

I commute by bicycle in Phoenix, Arizona, a metropolis suited to riding bicycles of all types, with weather, mountains, roads, canals, and paths to keep me forever spinning. My favorite bike tools are an open mind, creative engagement, curiosity, compassion, common ground, and the search for knowledge. With coffee.